I've often referred to Patrick Yarbrough as my best friend in the world. He's earned the designation because I never know where in the world he'll be the next time I talk to him.

For the moment, he's settled down in northeast Tennessee and seems quite happy in Townsend. He has relatives there, and the terrain of the area, which makes it a popular destination for hikers, campers, and outdoorsmen, is a good match for his adventurous spirit. Pat's tried a couple of times to talk me into an expedition, but so far I've begged off. My idea of roughing it is a Holiday Inn.

But that doesn't mean I don't enjoy the stories he comes back with. Such as the piece he sent me subsequent to his learning of my plans to develop Chattanooga Profile.

'We're right here in the Smoky Mountains, at the foot of the Appalachian Trail. People from all over the place come here to hike and go camping. Let me send you a story about it, man. It'd be a good travel and tourism article."

Little did I realize that, during the few years when we'd been out of contact, Pat had become an admirer of the late Hunter Thompson and had developed his own style of gonzo journalism. It was in this style that he told the story of his first extended hiking expedition. I'm not sure if his local tourism commission would consider it favorable, and I'm not holding my breath for the phone to start ringing with requests to reprint the piece for the purpose of attracting visitors to the area, but you can judge for yourselves.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Patrick Yarbrough on the great outdoors.

I was at a loss for words.

The backpack was suspended from a tree by a lengthy climbing rope. If they did that to the outfitting luggage, what did they do to the hiker who owned it? My aura of positive waves was beginning to fade.

As I wiped away beads of cold sweat from my brow, a hand suddenly clamped onto my shoulder. I screamed like a giddy schoolgirl only to realize that it was Jordan, my good friend and fellow hiker.

I tried to play off my act of blatant cowardice as he motioned to the pack dangling above us. 'You hang your packs at a safe distance so bears don't try to get into your food. It's a standard procedure."

'Right. Just as I thought."

My friend Jordan Kreager is a man of the wilderness. Scaling rock walls, hiking deep into the Smokies, spraying Bactine onto an injured speckled trout, he can do it all. Kind of like a bulimic Grizzly Adams, without the beard and not nearly as creepy. He began to give me instructions for our trip into the wooded void.

I had actually been hiking a number of times before, but not quite to this extent. Jordon was going to show me the ancient art of roughing it: no tents, no lights, no changes of clothing, none of the valuable properties of a good tarpaulin. My eyes had filled with tears back at the car when he told me I'd have to part company with my cell phone, portable TV set, and the six pack of beer I was looking forward to starting on.

Then I asked him, since we were actually roughing it, what line of defense we were entitled to against bears, werewolves, and assorted other bogeymen. He patted me on the back. 'Belief in one's self will carry you through."

I started to cry again.

If there existed a scale with which to rate a person's survival instincts, I would fail miserably. Probably wouldn't even register. There I was, green, perplexed, and obsessed with the idea of twenty-foot rattlers dragging me off the trail. Fess Parker would've been ashamed.

In the Smokies alone there are more than 150 trails to choose from. Many are not for the faint of heart, having been used in times gone by as wagon roads that existed before the national park was established. Old roads, like new roads, tended to go from one place to another, not around in circles, so there may very well be the need to backtrack.

What had I gotten myself into? Would I perish on some twisted death march? Would I meet my demise on Cooper's Trail Road?

For the first couple of days, though, they seemed like silly questions. Life was actually very easygoing. Almost a zenlike focus takes over your train of thought and general motor skills. You become very much at peace. I was actually enjoying myself.

And then we ran into Philip. A wild-eyed and slack-jawed fellow who looked like he'd spent the better part of his life on Cooper's Trail, his skinny frame danced around our fire after dinner one night.

'If you guys drink tap water," he rasped, pointing a long bony finger at us, 'I feel it is my duty to warn you that your mind is being subjected to government tampering."

It was about then that the silly questions seemed to be pertinent again. I looked over at Jordan, but he seemed to be more interested in opening a bag of candy corn than he did the old character's ravings, which were only getting more vehement.

'Antidepressants, brother! Oh, yeah! It's true! They're trying to make the greater population mass as docile as possible. Don't let them get you, man! Fair warning -- don't let them get you!"

Jordan's great bastion of defense, belief in one's self, was becoming less adequate with every word. I needed something more, so I grabbed an eye-gouging twig and held it ready for the rest of the night.

We eventually made it out of Cooper's Trail intact. It had been a cluster of days that I would not forget about any time soon. Jordan had made me pathworthy, and I was a better man for it.

So if you haven't had the chance to backpack in the Smokies, please do so. Your adventures will be a-plenty. Especially if Philip is still there.